


Venus was it's own downfall

by Look_Alive_Sunshine



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Twins, Amnesia, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Dreams and Nightmares, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Flashbacks, Gen, Ghostbur, My boi ghostbur is sad, Sleepy Bois Inc as Family, he just wants to remember, poor bean cant remember what he did
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-02
Updated: 2021-01-02
Packaged: 2021-03-12 10:49:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,375
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28509204
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Look_Alive_Sunshine/pseuds/Look_Alive_Sunshine
Summary: Sounds, echoes, whispers. Who was he? What did he do? “I mourned you long before you died, Wilbur.” Tommy told him once. What did that mean? What had hedone?“Do you know what that does to a person?” He was sorry, he was so sorry.Are you?a voice asked, and it sounded like him, except mangled, wrong.Yeshe replied, to no one in particular, maybe more so to himself. What had hedone?Maybe he just wouldn’t let himself remember.//OR Ghostbur is trying very hard ok?
Relationships: Dave | Technoblade & Wilbur Soot & TommyInnit & Phil Watson, Wilbur Soot & Phil Watson
Comments: 8
Kudos: 82





	Venus was it's own downfall

**Author's Note:**

> I made some alterations to canon ghostbur because I thought it would fit better, for example, in this version he doesn't remember that Phil was the one that killed him.
> 
> Anyway I hope you enjoy :)

He opened his eyes to a world that was grey, and dull. To a world that was encased in rain and mud, to a country that was now nothing more than rubble. There was a ringing in his ears that once he would have recognized as echoes of screams, and the remnants of an explosion, but now he thought it reminded him a little of pretty wind chimes. He opened his eyes to a world that had moved on and left him behind.

He was dead. That much was obvious. He was dead, must be. Just like water was wet and grass was green, he was dead. And the clash of the rain mixed with the tranquility of the wind, and the birds singing overhead engulfed him in a facade that everything was ok - _it wasn’t_

His feet didn't leave footprints in the mud as he made his way towards the epicentre of the crater, he supposed that was because he was floating. _He was dead wasn't he? Had he forgotten that already?_

How did he die? Was he killed? Was he sick? Was he another victim of this explosion that had wiped out so much of the country? He didn't know, he didn't know, he didn't _know_

 _Drip, drip, drip._ Sometimes He’d awake to the sound of blood incessantly dripping against cobblestone, and nothing, _nothing_ would make sense, and his fingers would curl themselves tighter around a blanket he no longer held a use for, in a country he was unfamiliar with, a country he had helped build from the ground upwards, handing bits and pieces of wood and hammers to averted eyes and watery smiles. What had he done, what had he done, _what had he done._

No one met his eyes anymore, just flashed him a weak smile that sometimes sang of betrayal, sometimes of guilt, and waved him off as though he was just another inconvenience, he just wanted to help? What had he done that was so irrevocably bad? 

Things were slipping away, and he found it harder and harder to grasp on to them, like clutching at grains of sand as they fell faster and faster through his fingers. He writes a journal.

 _The smell of bread.... Sparring with Techno as a kid… sally… salt… air… books… tunnels… arrows….. ...I don't know…_ tears of frustration, throwing a book at a wall and snapping the quill in two. _This wasn't fair… what couldn’t he remember?_ Why did Phil look so guilty, why did he not use his sword anymore. Where was Techno, why was Tommy always so sad?

Blue, blue, blue, everything was blue. It poured out of him, staining everything he had touched, leaving a trail akin to blood that it seemed only he could see. He gripped the transparency and bled his blue, giving it a physical form, it helped a little, and it was only a little while before the numbness became addictive. He wasn't sad, not anymore, there wasn't really anything to be sad about _at least, nothing he remembered_

There was the smell of smoke, followed by fire and screams, and noises he just wouldn't let himself remember, and then he would wake up, and he would be breathing quickly if he even had to breathe at all, and his blood would run cold if he even had any left, instead something reminiscent of tears caught at his eyes, and he’d open his mouth in a wordless scream of _this isn't fair, this isn't fair, this isn't fair_

Sounds, echoes, whispers. Who was he? What did he do? “I mourned you long before you died, Wilbur.” Tommy told him once. What did that mean? What had he _done?_ “Do you know what that does to a person?” He was sorry, he was so sorry. _Are you?_ a voice asked, and it sounded like him, except mangled, wrong. _Yes_ he replied, to no one in particular, maybe more so to himself. What had he _done?_ Maybe he just wouldn’t let himself remember.

Blinding confusion like snow, and he was so cold, and he was dead, and he thinks this was where his brother lived. His twin, his twin, his twin. _Where had he gone? Had he done something wrong too?_

No one listened to him anymore. Was he even there? Sometimes he felt he was sleepwalking through the ice cold blankets of amnesia. Did he even want to remember? Didn’t it hurt less to forget?

He’d asked Phil once, where techno was, only to be met with a look of grief and guilt. _How many more children would he have to lose?_ He hadn’t dared ask again, had simply taken some blue out his pocket and handed it over. _Don't be sad, don’t be sad, don’t be sad._ He wished there was more he could do.

It struck him, once, as he was reading an old weathered book in the comfort of a thing people had referred to as his home _It wasn't really his home, that was back with Phil, and techno and Tommy. His family. Couldn’t they just be like that again?_ that maybe he was the one that had caused Phil to be sad, had caused the look of guilt and pain that washed across his features each time he met his eyes no matter how hard he knew he tried to hide it. He quickly shook his head, and made more blue. There was no room for thoughts like that. _Was that why he forgot so much?_

He found a button one night, when the rain was too loud to ignore, yet too quiet to soothe him. He found a button and listened as the rain overhead entwined itself with the darkness of the evening, encompassing his head into one big ever growing roar, far too loud to hear anything else, and through the static of his brain he thinks he remembers something, thinks something might make sense, and he sat and watched and watched, and waited and waited, until the roar quieted down, and he could clear his head. Watched as the rain fell violently onto trees, churning the undergrowth and falling into the cavern L’manberg had been built on. _That hadn’t always been there… had it?_

He had forgotten what it was he remembered, and as he sat up he vowed to never go back in the rain. It must be the rain, it must be the rain. _later, when he had forgotten this incident, all he could say about the rain was that it burned him. He wouldn’t allow himself to think about it anymore._ He kept the button in his pocket anyway. Told himself it was better that way, _better that way._

He had been redecorating when a few stones fell, nothing much, surely not enough to make such a drastic change, yet behind them seemed to be a cavern. Curiosity having been piqued he used his hands to move a few more, revealing a room. A room he remembered - he had to, and a body? _Yours._ Nothing made sense, nothing made sense, nothing made sense, yet at the same time it did. He remembered a button, and the hushed grieving whispers of a father who had to end his own son's life, and suddenly he knew why Phil never used his sword anymore, why no one would meet his eyes. 

Phil found him, later, hunched over, curled in on himself, breathing useless air far too quickly, he was cold, he was cold, and he felt the world had collapsed and it was only him left, _it wasn’t_ He couldn’t breathe. _He didn’t need too._

Phil sighed, and sat down next to him, pulling his now semi transparent body closer. They sat like that for a while, Phil whispering comforting words until Wilbur finally calmed down, shook his head, and Phil held out a hand for him and the two walked back in companionable silence. 

It wasn't until later on that Phil noticed the blue that was now staining his hand, wasn’t until later he realised fully what had happened.

He had gone down to check on Wilbur later that night, only to find him humming cheerfully, brewing potions as per usual.

They never spoke of it again.

**Author's Note:**

> Comment??! :)


End file.
